News.
Parker kicked the door down at the bottom where the metal was, and the guy put down his News and strolled across the shiny geometric floor. He studied Parker and then noticed the carton of coffee, then nodded and knelt on one knee to unlock the door. The lock was down next to the floor in the metal strip along the bottom of the door.
Parker went in, and the employee locked the door again. He straightened arthritically and said, “Nice night.”
“Uh huh.”
They went back to the elevators. Both were at ground floor, but only one had a light on inside. They got into that one and Parker said, “Twelve.”
“Right.”
On the way up, the operator wanted to know if Parker had read that thing in the paper about them two kids, and Parker said no he hadn’t. They got to the twelfth floor and he said, “You want me to wait?”
“No,” Parker said. “I got five here, and three on the tenth. I can walk down to the tenth and then I’ll buzz you.”
“Okay by me.”
The doors slid shut, and Parker dropped the carton, not caring where it went. It hit the floor and the coffin containers rolled and spilled, making a mess. He went down to the end of the corridor, turned right and came to a door with lettering on it about accountants. He took off his shoe and smashed a hole in the frosted glass near the knob. Then he put his shoe back on, reached through the hole and unlocked the door.
There were air conditioners in all the windows. Looking out over one of them, he could see the hotel roof half a floor down, six or seven feet. An easy jump.
He knocked out the glass over the air conditioner and climbed through, dropping onto the hotel roof. Ahead of him was the door to the stairs. He went over and tried it; it was locked, the way he’d expected, so he went over to the edge of the roof overlooking the rear wall where the fire escape was. The back of another building was crowded in close, and down between them was utter blackness.
The first part of the fire escape was a metal ladder, down to the top floor landing. The window there was wide and low-silled, and opened into the hallway. The hall was dimly lit and empty, but the window was locked.
He went back up the fire escape and over the roof again and up through the window into the accountants’ office. He searched through drawers, and in a kind of big closet full of supplies and a mimeograph machine he found a large screwdriver and a hammer and an uninked stamp pad. He took these and went back out and across the roof and down to the window. It would be easier just to break the window, but he didn’t want any noise.
He shoved the screwdriver up into the crack between the two parts of the window, by the lock. Then he took the soft pad out of its metal box and held it against the top part of the screwdriver to muffle the sound when he hit it with the hammer.
The screwdriver went in slowly, spreading the two parts of the window apart, straining the lock until finally it snapped. Then the screwdriver fell out, clattering against the metal of the fire escape, and he hunched unbreathing by the window after he retrieved it until he was sure no one had heard the sound.
He pushed the window up, climbed through, slid the window closed again. The red bulb over the window stained his face and hands with color.
He found the stairs and went down them quickly, pausing at each landing to listen. He met no one, and at the third floor he stood for a long moment at the door before cautiously pulling it open.
The hall was empty.
He found 361 around to the right. It was easy to get in — the screwdriver slipped between door and jamb with no trouble, clicking back the tumbler.
He went in cautiously, alert for any sound, any movement. The suite was dark. Not home, or asleep? He went across the living room in the darkness, grateful for the quiet thickness of the rug, and looked through the bedroom door.
The bed was empty and unmade — no sheets, no blankets, no pillow. The mattress was striped gray and white, shining dimly in the faint light from the window.
Startled, he went into the room, looked around and hurried over to the closet and pulled the door open.
It was empty. Nobody lived here any more.
Chapter 5
As she was turning the knob, he shoved against the door, knocking her backward. She nearly fell down the three steps into the living room, but caught her balance just in time. He pushed into the apartment, angry and hard, slamming the door behind him.
“He’s moved,” he said. “The bastard moved out.”
“You almost knocked me down the steps,” she said. She was wearing a pale blue silk robe now, and slippers with blue puffs. In the living room, the late movie was finishing on television.
“He’s moved out, I told you. Clothes, everything. Nobody lives in that damn room.”
She heard him that time. “Mal?”
“Who else would I be talking about? Wanda, you better come straight with me.”
“Call me Rose,” she said automatically. “I’m not used to answering to the other name any more.”
“I don’t care what you’re used to, Wanda.” Parker advanced on her, grim faced, and she backed down the steps into the living room. Her face was at the level of his chest. He reached out a hand and grabbed her by the hair, twisting his hand in it and pulling her close. “He isn’t there,” he said, “and I want you to tell me, Wanda. Was he ever there?”
